The Curious Incident of the Detective on the Stairs
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Maybe it has been the wrong thing to say, he muses. He hasn't even been able to finish his sentence when a fist had connected with his face, hitting his nose, causing it to spurt blood. And now Sherlock finds himself stumbling through streets he fails to recognise, trying to find the way back to 221B. And to almost give John a heart attack. /Contains fluff. Five parts in total.
1. Stains on the Carpet

Hello again!

I can't seem to stop, apparently. Had to try another idea.

As always, I don't anything.

Enjoy.

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**The Curious Incident of the Detective on the Stairs**

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1

Stains on the Carpet

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Maybe it had been the wrong thing to say.

"Is that why your girlfriend left you? Because you are an unemployed alcoholic with a tendency towards abusive behaviour and an apparent minority complex…" That had been as far as he had got.

Definitely not the right thing to say. John could have told him.

Why was the ground moving? Solid concrete, he registered distractedly, not supposed to be moving. Neither were houses.

Furrowing his brow hurt, oh. Stupid. And why was his hand shaking as he raised it towards his forehead, feeling something wet covering his skin.

Wet? Why? It wasn't raining, was it?

Stupid, Sherlock thought again as he staggered against a street lamp, clutching it for support. Head injury, obviously. Crashed against a... Funnily enough, he didn't remember.

It hadn't been the right thing to say.

He hadn't even finished his sentence when a fist had connected with his face, hitting his nose, causing it to spurt blood.

More blood. Oh, indeed, he noticed vaguely, bringing his hand to his nose. Broken? He didn't know. John would know.

John... Where was he, anyways? For a second, he felt panicked. Panicked, he?

John. Needed data.

Not here. At home, then. Home. Oh, he needed to get home. 221B. John.

Stumbling away from the street lamp, he suddenly became aware of a strange sensation in his insides. What was... Oh.

A wave of nausea hit him, and before he could do anything against it, Sherlock vomited onto the concrete, panting afterwards.

Maybe he had eaten something wrong... But no, his mind lazily corrected him as he tried to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth by spitting out saliva. Head injury. Concussion, maybe.

Why had he said that? John would chide him for it, saying: a bit not good. Rude.

But that was what he always did, wasn't it?

Oh, the street was still spinning.

A bit not good, Sherlock was fairly sure of, and not nice. Streets weren't supposed to do things like this.

Or maybe he was the one swaying?

It was funny that he didn't remember what had happened after the kicking. He had been on the concrete, yes, and then... And then... Oh.

They had left, apparently, leaving him, too, to his own misery. Although he didn't recall it too clearly, he must have got to his feet, scrambling forward, simply away.

There was something in his eyes. Sherlock blinked rapidly, attempted to blink it away, blink away what was making his vision so blurry. Why didn't it work? And why could he see close to nothing with his left eye?

Raising his hand a third time almost took too much effort. There was the moisture... The blood on his nose, then... Oh. Someone had to have hit his left eye. Swelling shut, quickly.

How was he supposed to work with his microscope if his eye decided not to function properly?

The sigh his body attempted turned into coughing. Surprisingly enough, it was rather difficult to breathe with his nose being clogged by dried and drying blood. And somewhere, somewhere below, there was something, another kind of pain. Ribs, probably. Cracked, if not broken.

John definitely wouldn't be pleased. Especially not if he continued bleeding at the flat, ruining their sofa.

Pressing his hand to his nose didn't help at all. It only made him cough again.

John...

Sherlock almost fell over his own feet. Stupid, stupid. How could he...? His mobile.

Still in tact, he found out as soon as his shaky hands - why were they, it wasn't even cold - had discovered the familiar form inside of his coat pocket.

Where was he, by the way? And why weren't here any cabs? After midnight, maybe... Rundown area or...

Not important now, Sherlock decided, holding the screen close to his right eye. It hadn't come out of this undamaged, it seemed, the screen being as wobbly and unsteady as the concrete. Oh, but then, this might not be because of his phone, but rather because of him.

Staggering forward, he managed to press speed dial, calling John.

John's voice answered, and it took Sherlock a few seconds to realise that he was listening to voicemail, not to John talking.

"Leave a message, I'll call back…"

Oh, brilliant, Sherlock's brain came up with. Was he supposed to talk to a machine voice now?

No, he decided. He would get home without John. Home and to bed. Sleep, he just needed a bit of sleep... And tea, or coffee.

The only problem was that he wasn't exactly sure of where he had to go if he wanted to reach 221B.

Left? No, right. No...

The world started spinning even more as Sherlock turned around, trying to find anything he might recognise in the dark, that might tell him where to walk next...

For the first time, it occurred to him that it wasn't the world's fault, but rather his head injury's.

Oh, there. Tesco. Closed, of course. How late was it? In the middle of the night... Or was it early again already? It was a tiny bit disconcering that he couldn't possibly fathom for how long he had been out on the concrete.

Maybe John was at Tesco's right now... But no, closed, he reminded his brain. Stupid. No John to pick him up.

Left, then. Left, and right, left again.

How far was it?

His legs were not complying properly, which was rather unhelpful. No matter how often he would tell them not to buckle, not to be wobbly, his body didn't obey his command. Transport it was, nothing more. Rather primitive one, too.

He made it. Somehow, he made it.

Arrived at the front door of 221B, staring at the numbers and wondering numbly when Mrs Hudson had decided to double them. Why should she? Reading 221B once should be sufficient, shouldn't it?

Oh, his brain caught up minutes later. His vision had doubled, not the sign. How intriguing. This had to be the reason why he was holding two keys in his hands, trying to determine which of the two locks was the correct one.

Never mind, he decided eventually, steadying himself against the door with one hand.

He should have known, of course, that as soon as he had the door unlocked, it would swing open - and of course send him falling, face first, directly to Mrs Hudson's carpet in the hallway.

Surprisingly comfortable. Sherlock's eyes closed on their own account.

The next thing he remembered was a thought, a thought prominent in the back of his head. Bleeding on the carpet. Stains on the carpet. Not good.

Getting up was exhausting. Had it always taken so much effort? He couldn't remember.

Oh, he probably ought to close the door. Door... He crashed against it, wincing, and slamming it shut, not caring that his keys were still inside the lock.

Sherlock stopped for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to fight back nausea and vertigo and stop everything from whirling around him.

The stairs. They were living upstairs, he had to get upstairs. Sofa. Bed. Couldn't stay here.

It turned out to be surprisingly difficult to differ between real steps and fake ones, and even the hand clutching the wall didn't do much to steady him.

He didn't remember their stairs to be so excrutiatingly long.

A break, he thought, out of breath. Where was that strange noise coming from, he wondered, frowning, having forgotten that this movement hurt. Oh, from him. He was wheezing, he realised distantly, spots dancing in front of his eyes. Wheezing... Funny.

A break. Just a few seconds. Then he could make for the rest and lie down. Just...

His knees gave way beneath him and took the decision from him. Just... need... to... catch... my... breath, he thought slowly, his mind foggy. Not good at all, some part of his brain registered, urging his hand to search for his mobile again. John had to answer the call, finally...

Before he could even hit speed dial a second time, his head slumped forwards, his entire body slackened and the mobile dropped out of his numb hands, toppling down the stairs.

Very not good, was his last thought before the world faded away.

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Thank you for reading!

This originated from a silly little thought in my head... Sherlock sitting on some stairs, slumped over. So, well.

Let me know what you think.


	2. Can't You Say Anything Else?

Well, thank you for reading and following and everything... Really!

And I realised I maybe should have mentioned that it's supposed to be night in the previous chapter. So, fixed that.

And now, enjoy!

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**The Curious Incident of the Detective on the Stairs**

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2

Can't You Say Anything Else?

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"Sherl... -ke up... erlock…"

Sherlock slowly surfaced towards consciousness at this sound interrupting his rest.

"Sher-... come on,... idiot…"

This voice. He knew the voice. Voicemail... John.

Hands were prodding his face, his throat, his arms. And the voice kept talking.

"Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock."

Oh, it made sense, finally. But why should he want to wake up? John told him to sleep, normally, why not now when he was inclined to in fact do so?

"Sherlock!"

Yes, he was listening, fine. And awake. But somehow, his eyelids were so sticky, not willing to be opened...

John.

Well, if his eyes weren't complying, then he at least could say something.

'Hello, John, back home, are you? I tried to call you, but you didn't answer your phone, so I decided to take a nap on the sofa,' he wanted to say, but all that came out was: "Hmpfm."

No talking then, either. And he wasn't lying on the sofa, he realised slowly. Not sofa... Oh. Stairs. It was the wall his head was leaning against, and his back was pressed against the steps. Oh...

"Sherlock?" John's voice again. What was that sound, that... tone? Worry? But why? He was fine, really.

"Mfn," he tried to reassure John, again not being able to produce more than an indistinguishable moan.

Not reassuring, certainly.

"It's alright, Sherlock, stay calm. Don't move, I'm only going to call an ambulance, alright?"

Ambulance? What for?

He furrowed his brow again, wincing at the sudden feeling of pain. Oh yes, head injury. Bleeding. Probable concussion.

"No am'b'l'nc," he told John, raising his left hand. Or rather intending to, causing it to twitch and flop down again.

Why was he feeling so numb? And why wouldn't his eyes open?

Maybe he had gone blind, Sherlock mused. Maybe he was dead. Dead, and John hadn't noticed yet.

Yes, Sherlock, his brain teased him, brilliant deduction. That's why John wants to call an ambulance.

"J'n," he finally forced out of his mouth, feeling utterly ridiculous. Why couldn't he talk?

"Sherlock? Hang on a second, I'm dialling."

Dialling? Oh, yes, ambulance.

"N', J'n!" he protested, trying to twitch his hands again.

For God's sake, he needed to open his eyes!

Sherlock did not remember since when it was so excrutiatingly exhausting to pry his eyelids open, but eventually, he succeeded.

Only that he didn't see much.

A blurry shade directly in front of him, a shade in beige and… Groaning quietly, he rolled over to his side, feeling nausea threatening to overwhelm him once more.

"Sherlock?"

Boring, John, he thought, can't you say anything else? Except for my name?

Being far too busy with swallowing back the urge to vomit, he didn't open his mouth, even felt the desire to let his eyes slide shut again. Rest… sleep…

Stop the spinning.

"Sherlock?"

There were hands, hands in his face, steadying him in his position on the stairs, and suddenly, John's face came into focus.

Well, let's say focus.

Sherlock's vision blurred and cleared in a quick rhythm as he tried to recall if John's nose really was supposed to be hopping up and down in his face, and if John's eyebrows really were supposed to be beyond his eyes.

Probably not, he decided, feeling confused. Then why did he see it?

"John," someone moaned, rather pathetically.

"It's alright, Sherlock, it's OK." Soothing. Why soothing?

He wasn't a baby, he wanted to tell John, but all he could muster was to swallow weakly, to swallow back saliva and bile collecting in his throat.

John was moving rapidly now, from the left to the right, coming closer and disappearing again. Too rapidly, too fast for Sherlock to follow his movements. Narrowing his eyes didn't do him any good, and he very nearly vomited on the stairs. Disgusting, really.

"OK, Sherlock."

The voice, the voice… something about his voice had changed. Oh, Captain John Watson. Saluting might be appropriate, Sherlock's brain provided him with, helpfully enough. Saluting if he had had the strength to even more his fingers.

"OK," John repeated sullenly, blurring in front of Sherlock. Interesting, he thought. How did John do this? He hadn't assumed…

The thought slipped from his mind before he had the time to fully process it.

"We're going upstairs now, and I'll check you over. If there's any… call an ambul… cussion…"

Funnily, John was disappearing, his voice was disappearing. Why was he leaving? Where was he going?

Sherlock didn't understand, but didn't want John to leave. "Shn," he attempted to call, only managing to make a muffled noise. Not even a word, just a noise.

"Sherl… stay… wake… rlock!"

There was something on his shoulder, something…

Oh, his eyes had closed, Sherlock noticed dazedly, it was all black again. When had that happened? Maybe when John had started to disappear… Disappearance and blackness, how fitting.

Suddenly, the world shifted again, and Sherlock was grateful for his eyes being closed. Shifting… Where were they? Were they on a ship? Why was the floor moving… Because… because… There was something, he was sure of it, but he couldn't remember.

"…erl… com… om… Sher…"

John kept talking, but he was talking nonsense. Absolute nonsense. Sherlock wondered why. Maybe John was concussed and not fully conscious…

Oh.

The stairs. They were walking up the stairs, and John was supporting him, carrying most of his weight. Swaying, dizzy, his brain foggy, Sherlock wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

What for, he pondered. Could say it later. Once he had rested…

When they almost bumped into the wall, Sherlock made the mistake to force his eyes open a tiny bit, seeing the stairs reeling, reeling and turning over and exploding in fireworks of colourful spots. Spots exploding…spots… "Hmf," he made, probably intending to say something, before collapsing and nearly causing John to fall down the stairs.

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Thank you for reading! Any thoughts?


	3. Why Are There Smudges Under Your Eyes?

Thank you all! For leaving reviews, for following, and favouriting! Thank you!

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**The Curious Incident of the Detective on the Stairs**

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3

Why Are There Smudges Under Your Eyes?

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John's hands were trembling as he attempted to dial on his mobile phone, to call an ambulance. And attempted to do his best not to think about the call he had missed, the call from Sherlock.

He had told Sherlock he wouldn't, yes, but passing out twice in a row, probably due to a concussion, definitely qualified as a reason to be taken to hospital.

Right now, Sherlock was lying on the landing, on his side, making a wheezing noise which each breath he took through his mouth, his nose clogged with blood. It would have been comical, maybe, if John hadn't been that worried.

"Sherlock, wake up," he told his flatmate while pressing his phone to his ear. "Sherlock."

No reaction. Definitely worse than slurred speech. Concussed, probably. Plus various other little injuries, going by how ragged and bruised Sherlock looked. And why did it take so long until someone was answering John's call?

"Sherlock," he attempted again, prodding his shoulder. The only effect he caused was that Sherlock's shoulder slumped even further.

Ah, finally. A voice on the other end of the line. Asking him for his emergency.

Quickly and in a clipped tone, John told the woman everything she needed to know and then ended the call, tossing his mobile aside and focusing on Sherlock instead.

Laceration, nose, ribs, bruises, he quickly took stock of what he had noticed.

And why was Sherlock even here, at 221B? How had he got here, in the middle of the night? By foot?

This time, shaking his shoulder carefully caused him to moan.

John exhaled. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" he wanted to know.

"Hm," was all his flatmate made.

"OK," John told him, composing himself in order to sound calm, not panicked as he was. "Don't move, just lay still and try to stay awake, alright?"

"Lrg," Sherlock slurred, and John assumed it to mean 'alright'.

Patting Sherlock's shoulder softly, he prepared for the wait.

o

About two and a half hours later, John, armed with a cup of coffee, took a seat in one of the chairs, resting back and stifling a sigh.

He had done everything that had to be done, trying to ban his worry to the back of his head - had accompanied Sherlock, pretty much out of it, to hospital, had waited for results, had been relieved, had then called Mrs Hudson, appearing in the hallway at the sound of an ambulance and being clearly panicked, had finally taken a look at his watch, realising how late it was already, and, knowing that he probably wouldn't find any sleep anyway, had then thoughtfully bought himself a cup of coffee. And now, he was waiting again.

Concussed, yes, he thought when he remembered how confused Sherlock had been at 221B. He was sleeping now, thanks to pain medication and after having been thoroughly examined and stitched up, and was expected to sleep for a few more hours.

And when he did wake, he would - at least that was what John hoped for because it would be his normal behaviour - start complaining and demanding to go home. Which John, knowing his friend, had already asked the doctor, having vaguely been told 'tomorrow'. Good enough.

Taking a sip from his coffee, looking at Sherlock with his swollen face and the plasters occupying much of his skin, he suddenly felt an echo of the fear that had threatened to possess him when he had stumbled across Sherlock, cowering on the stairs, bloodied and unconscious.

Life seriously never got boring with Sherlock.

Although John really wouldn't have a problem with avoiding such situations in the future. And, he told himself, maybe he should take a look at his phone now and then, even if he intended to have an evening away from his flatmate.

Taking another sip and promptly burning his lips, he slowly felt himself relax. A tiny bit.

Fine. Sherlock would be fine.

ooo

The next time Sherlock woke, he felt a lot more coherent. Coherent although his memory was rather… nebulous.

'John,' he wanted to shout, but found that his mouth was too dry to produce more than a croaked sound. Licking his lips, he tried again. "John!" Oh, better, surprisingly enough.

John's head appeared at the edge of his vision only seconds later, his nose and eyebrows this time being in the places they belonged. Good. Back to normality.

"You awake?" was what John said first.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and realised with something akin to shock that it still hurt. Reflexively, he reached out for his forehead, only to find a plaster taped to it neatly, directly beyond his hairline.

Stupid, John, Sherlock wanted to say, but again, nothing came out of his mouth.

"Do you think you can keep some water down?" John asked carefully, disappearing from his vision again.

Where was he, anyway? Not at home. Strange smell in the air… Oh. Hospital. Sherlock deepened his frown. How had he got to hospital?

The last thing he remembered… he remembered… Mrs Hudson's carpet. Or was there something else…?

"Here, drink." John's voice again, making sense, this time.

Sitting up was disconcertingly demanding. And painful. Painful? Why was it painful…? Oh. Ribs. Broken ribs.

John handed him a glass of water, together with a straw. "You might need it," he warned in his best doctor voice.

A straw? If his vocal chords had been obeying the command they had been given, he would have protested loudly. Instead, he simply took the glass, sipping the water and spilling half of it on the bed.

"Told you you might need it," John added, grinning faintly.

Sherlock scowled.

"What happened?" he finally wanted to know, letting his head sink back into the unfamiliar pillow and exhaling slowly.

John set the glass down and then bowed down to Sherlock, staring in his eyes. Or rather one eye, Sherlock mused, his left one still swollen shut.

"You're asking me?" John huffed, looking very much like a steaming tea pot. Funny metaphor, Sherlock's brain told him. Obviously not completely fine yet.

"You tell me, Sherlock!" John almost barked at him. "What the hell were you thinking? I come home from the pub with Stamford, only to find your keys in the lock, stains of blood leading towards the stairs and you passed out on the steps! And when I try to wake you, you only… you only babble and scare me to death! Jesus, Sherlock! You almost gave me a heart attack when you passed out while I was trying to help you to the flat!"

Passed out? He didn't remember that. He didn't remember much, as he had to admit.

"But I'm not dead," he finally remarked, his voice annoyingly croaky. "So, I'm fine. Not dead."

For a moment, John appeared as if he was going to punch him. "No, you're not, but you could very well have been!"

Exhaling carefully and closing his eyes, Sherlock attempted a smile. Attempted, well. Oh, his nose hurt. "Why am I in hospital?" he whispered.

John remained silent for a few moments, apparently dumbfounded. "You kidding, right?" he asked, sounding angry.

Sherlock opened his eyes - eye - again, causing his vision to blur for a few seconds. "No…," he began, trailing off. There were dark smudges under John's eyes, meaning that… meaning that… meaning _what_? "John?" he whispered, suddenly feeling funny. "Why are there smudges under your eyes?"

John narrowed his eyes and frowned. "What?"

"Smudges…," Sherlock repeated. "Why are they there? And why don't I know why?"

Abruptly, John was at his side, taking the glass from his grip and pulling the covers up. "You'll be alright, Sherlock. Just sleep."

Smudges… they were supposed to tell him something, to say him something, to mean something… But no, he found, his brain was still too hazy.

And suddenly, the world started spinning. Again. Oh no, not again. Stop, Sherlock commanded his brain. Futile.

But sleep… Sleep was boring. Dull. Not interesting.

Closing his eyes - eye - was fine, in contrast, Sherlock deemed, his eyelids doing what they wanted and not what he ordered them to do. Closed, already.

At least now, John would stop fussing about him. If he appeared to be resting. He didn't intend to, of course.

Unfortunately, his body didn't obey him once more.

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Thank you for reading.

One more part to go, plus an epilogue (which might, unfortunately, take a bit longer...)

As always, don't hesitate to let me know what you thought.


	4. Stop It, I Said!

Thank you all!

Although it's taken me quite a while... here's now the final part, with only an epilogue still to come.

Enjoy.

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**The Curious Incident of the Detective on the Stairs**

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4

Stop It, I Said!

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When he became aware of breathing, John's breathing, all of a sudden, Sherlock realised that, despite his intentions, he apparently had fallen asleep again. Intrigued by the repeated betrayal of his transport, he wrenched his eyes open, seeing John twist around his empty cup of coffee.

"What happened?" he repeated his question from earlier as if no time had passed, prodding the plaster on his forehead.

John almost flinched. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed, only to then tell him sharply: "Stop that," and even pried his fingers away. "It required stitches, stop probing it."

Obediently, Sherlock let his hand sink back onto the duvet. "John?"

His flatmate sighed. "I told you, I don't know. I came home and found you on the stairs, bleeding and unconscious. Do you remember that?"

Searching his mind was too exhausting. And it hurt. "Maybe," Sherlock answered quietly. "Have to find it again. Stored it somewhere, probably."

John sighed again. "I tried to wake you up, but it didn't really work, so I decided to call an ambulance."

It didn't make sense to Sherlock. Why couldn't he remember anything of what John told him? And why was he still so… dazed? And sleepy. Sleepy. Disgusting. Think, mind, he commanded, but again, his brain was disobedient. "And…?" he encouraged John, suddenly feeling ridiculous because of how hoarse his voice sounded.

"What do you expect?" John snapped. "I called an ambulance, scared Mrs Hudson half to death, it arrived and paramedics took care of you. That was about twelve hours ago. We've been here since then."

"You were here?" Sherlock wanted to know, his fingers touching the plaster again.

John grabbed his wrist this time and didn't let go. "Yes, apparently. Although your brother tried to abduct me about…," He glanced critically at his watch. "…four hours ago."

Sherlock twisted his hand, trying to get his wrist free. "Tried to…?" he prompted John again.

John didn't loosen his grip. "Well, I couldn't leave, could I? Even your brother realised that risking the havoc you might cause once you were awake wasn't worth asking me a few questions. So, he just scanned you and then left. Ordered me to call him as soon as you were awake. Coherent, rather."

"Coherent?" Sherlock echoed in a raspy voice.

John scratched his ear and finally let go of Sherlock's wrist. "Well, you were awake a while ago, but you weren't strictly speaking lucid. You were far too much out of it, but well, Mycroft was still here and you were… well, telling him about how his eyes were moving in his face and asking him why his head was so unsteady on his throat… Yep," he concluded.

All of a sudden, Sherlock felt a weird hotness creep to his cheeks. What was… Was he _blushing_? For a moment, Sherlock didn't know whether to be thankful or embarrassed that he didn't remember. "And… I was talking about Mycroft?"

"Yeah," John confirmed, barely concealing his smile.

Mycroft. For God's sakes. He assumed he would have to hear this until the end of his days. Mycroft being amused? Never any good.

"You had him worried, too, you know," John suddenly said, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "Believe it or not, he called me only minutes after we'd arrived here, and when he came, he questioned the doctors for a very long time… And he almost forgot his umbrella when he left."

Worried. His brother and worried. The last time Mycroft had been worried because of him had been when he had broken their mother's best vase, being a seven-year-old boy. How very unlikely.

"So…," he attempted to change the topic. "Broken ribs?"

"Yep," John repeated, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Two broken, one only badly bruised."

"Concussion?"

"Yep."

Oh. Concussed. Again. That explained why his brain wouldn't work, why he wasn't able to deduce, and why sometimes everything was still spinning.

"Black eye?"

This time, John's answer was a chuckle. "A bit obvious question, isn't it?"

Sherlock answered with touching the plaster taped to his forehead.

"Stop it," John chided him, lunging for Sherlock's hand again.

"Broken nose?" Sherlock continued, suddenly remembering pain and blood coming from his nose.

"Nope," John replied. "Just punched, not broken."

"Oh," Sherlock mumbled, giving in to the urge to finger his black eye.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, sounding slightly upset. "Stop it, I said. It won't get better any faster if you prod it all the time."

Sherlock only huffed, being painfully reminded of his ribs as a result.

"Do you need anything?" John asked him, suddenly sounding… soft?

Brain, Sherlock thought, work more quickly, please.

"Why are there circles beneath your eyes?" Sherlock wanted to know again, failing to observe for once. Concussed, yes. Definitely.

John sighed and tiredly rubbed his eyes. Tiredly? "Can't you deduce that?" he retorted curtly. "It's a bit difficult to sleep when you know that your flatmate - and friend - received a beating somewhere that caused him to black out on the stairs twice in a row," he finally admitted.

Oh. Oh. Stupid. John had been worried - about him.

"John…," Sherlock croaked hoarsely, not knowing what he had intended to say.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John cut him off. "It's fine. It's fine if… if you're fine."

Sherlock nodded sheepishly and felt the room spin around him for a moment.

"But you could tell me what happened. Why you were at 221B, bruised and beaten and bleeding. If you remember, that is," John continued after a few seconds.

Frowning, Sherlock tried to. "I believe…," he cleared his throat. "I believe I have said something to someone I shouldn't have said. I, er… insulted someone and they got angry."

John made a noise that sounded almost like a growl. "And that's why they beat you? Did you know them? And why didn't you call an ambulance as soon as you realised you were hurt?"

Call… ambulance… call… The thought was ringing some bell in the back of Sherlock's head. Oh. Yes. "I called you!" he told John, raising his hand towards his forehead again.

"Stop it, Sherlock," John reprimanded him and managed to look a tiny bit guilty in the very next moment. "Well, I… I had my mobile silenced, and I only saw the missed call from you when I was back at the flat and you had already been taken care of… I'm… I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Scratching over the plaster, causing John to grab his wrist again, Sherlock frowned. "Sorry? What for… Oh. Because you didn't answer your phone. Well, er… I suppose I'm… I'm sorry, too. For…" Oh, his brain was indeed still very hazy. Why was he thinking adamantly about saying 'for scaring you'? "For bleeding on Mrs Hudson's carpet," he concluded instead, stifling a yawn. Why exactly didn't he have a massive headache? Painkillers, probably. Good ones.

John chuckled softly. "She's not angry, you know. I suppose we can talk Mycroft into paying for it anyway." He let go of Sherlock's hand and fetched the glass again. "Getting you something against the pain and more water, and then you should sleep, alright?"

Shortly wondering why the spinning increased when he moved his head - it might have been worth an experiment if he hadn't still been feeling so… fuzzy -, Sherlock nodded.

In the doorframe, probably towards the bathroom, John stopped again, turning back. "Oh, and Sherlock: Never do that again."

This time, the spinning did not matter to Sherlock as he nodded again. "John," he croaked after his flatmate. "When can we leave again?"

* * *

Thank you for reading.

Well, as I said, fluff. Nothing serious. I wouldn't dare, would I?

I hope you liked it nonetheless - if there's anything you've got to say, you are welcome to leave a review.


	5. Epilogue

I am honestly sorry for the ridiculously long wait, but I have been... well, distracted, probably.

Now, finally, here's the final part for you.

Just a bit of crack.

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**The Curious Incident of the Detective on the Stairs**

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Epilogue

The Case of the Consultant and the Black Eye

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John had finally allowed him to go to a crime scene again - after he had missed two interesting cases of murder and two less fascinating private ones while being cooped up in bed. In his own bed, thankfully, after one more night in hospital. Concussion monitoring, John had informed him. His bed had felt a lot more comfortable, but still… it was a bed, meant for _resting_. Doctor's orders, John had told him in his soldierly voice, and after Sherlock's first journey to the toilet on his own, causing him to crash against the tub and receive a second plaster to the chin, he was inclined to listen to John. Had been inclined, in fact, at least for a while.

The time of utter boredom he had survived partly in his bed, partly on the sofa, was disrupted by questions from John and Lestrade, determined to find out who was responsible, had pressed him about how the men had looked, about what he had deduced about them, about what he remembered. Not much, in fact, everything was… strangely and inconveniently blurry and hazy, but in the end - surprisingly enough - Lestrade managed to catch two of them - while house-breaking in the area the third one lived, the area Sherlock had deduced - and remembered. John was relieved, Sherlock could tell by the way his tea tasted less strong, and Sherlock simply had returned to being bored.

And now a case. Murder, apparently, but no definite cause of death nor any hint on a murder weapon. Interesting.

Interesting enough to cope with Lestrade and John's looks, directed at him. As if they assumed he was going to faint and die any moment. As if he was made of glass.

Sherlock did his best to ignore them, but it was difficult to examine a corpse for more than a minute if John asked him every thirty seconds if he was alright, if he was feeling dizzy, if… Sherlock decided to stop listening after the second question.

Lestrade wasn't any better, wanting to know if he really 'felt up to it', if he was 'fit' enough to work yet again.

Up to. Fit. Disgusting.

Sherlock didn't bother with a reply, instead simply asked for the details and for what Lestrade's team - still imbeciles, really - had disturbed already, making it impossible to deduce anything from parts of the evidence now.

"Oi, the freak," a voice startled him while he was bending down over the dead woman's body. "Haven't been around here for a while. Been busy otherwhere, haven't you?"

"Sally," he addressed her, without looking up. "John!" he then called out loud. First, John was fussing over him like a mother-hen, and when there was work to do for the former army doctor, he was nowhere to be seen. "John!" he shouted again, lifting his gaze from the corpse.

He heard Sally hiss. "Oh, freak, got a black eye? What happened to you, then? Somebody came and simply punched you for one of your 'deductions'?"

John was approaching, unfortunately with Anderson in tow. "Ah, our favourite psychopath again," Anderson greeted him.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Anderson, if your insults are limited on repeating the same expressions over and over, I suggest you give up on them anyway and rather think about how to persuade your wife not to move out."

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asked him as soon as he had finished.

This time, Sherlock frowned. "OK? What? Yeah. The corpse, John. Find any track marks on her?"

John kneeled down beside the dead woman.

"Your black eye," Anderson addressed Sherlock again. "Plus the fact that you haven't been around for blessed and quiet two weeks… both facts suggest that you've been busy, haven't you?"

Sherlock barely bit back a grin. "Oh, deducing now, Anderson, are we? Very well. Go on. I am very keen on hearing what you have to say."

Anderson smiled triumphantly. "Two weeks, freak, and now the doctor here's asking you if you're OK. Bit odd question, I think. So… what have you been up to?"

For one moment, Sherlock absolutely did not know what to say, did not know, for a second, without John, if Anderson was being sarcastic or serious.

Serious, obviously, he decided as soon as the man went on: "I bet you're no longer just 'colleagues', but… more. I'd say you've spent the past two weeks… in bed-" - Sherlock was about to nod, just to mock Anderson, but the thought of John's exasperated face crossed his mind - "shag… _intercoursing_, and I've won a bet. And the black eye… went a little too wild, didn't you?"

On the floor, John burst out laughing. "Brilliant," he muttered once he had caught his breath. "Brilliant, Anderson, really, I'm fascinated."

For another second, Sherlock was utterly bewildered. John, laughing? About Anderson? His thinking might still be more incapacitated than he had assumed, he decided, if he could not foresee John's reaction. But then, John Watson tended to surprise him.

"Truly," he replied dryly, pocketing his looking glass. "I see, Anderson, you have mastered the Science of Deduction. So, it's up to you to solve this case. There you go. Come on, John."

Lestrade shot him a confused look when he pulled his gloves off. "Leaving already?" he wanted to know before his expression turned serious. "It was too early, wasn't it? Oh god, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you…"

"I'm fine," Sherlock interrupted him quickly. "It's…"

"It's Anderson," John went on, still grinning. "I'm afraid he might suffer from a bout of hubris. Tried to deduce Sherlock and his black eye."

Lestrade's expression remained perplexed for a second. "Really?" he then wanted to know.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, we're just telling you to make your day more joyful. Of course he tried to. Need to examine something in the lab. I'll call you once I've got news."

Naturally, Sherlock did not miss the glance John and Lestrade were exchanging. "Come on, John," he called, walking away swiftly. Track marks…

"Shagging," John repeated as soon as he had caught up with Sherlock. "Jesus. What does he think we're doing at home?"

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered darkly, entirely focused on the case now. "Maybe that's what he and Sally are doing usually."

John burst into another fit of hysterical giggle. "Oh, that's brilliant," he mumbled, still chuckling. "Too hilarious." Seconds later, he grew serious again. "Although… if you ever do something like you did two weeks ago, I might have to punch you," he explained.

Smiling slightly, Sherlock accelerated his pace. "Wouldn't dare to think about it. It inhibits my abilities of deduction. Though… I'm still better than Anderson, I hope?"

John giggled again. "Oh yes, you are. You definitely are."

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Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the final part (took me a while until I was at least half-pleased, so...)

Let me please know, one final time, what you think.

Oh, and I'm sorry for being a bit rude to Anderson. Really. He just... served my purposes.


End file.
